


Reign In Hell

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Angst, Canon Divergence, Happy ending despite it all, Hope, M/M, Mention of past character deaths, Post-War, Vampirism, Weirdness, mild violence, second person narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-22
Updated: 2006-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8581684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: High up in the tower, the broken hero waits.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** The Potterverse is JKR's not mine.

Your room is at the top of the tower so you can see the stars at night, and you leave the balcony doors open all year round, even in the dead of winter, because the fresh air makes you feel alive.  
  
Sometimes, you lie in your bed, you close your eyes, and you pretend you're flying.  
  
You know you'll never mount another broom for as long as you live, and you've long stopped kidding yourself.  
  
You're too sick, too weak, and your legs can barely support your weight anymore, even if there's not that much weight to begin with.  
  
(The hero returned after mending the world, but the hero came back broken.)  
  
You close your eyes, you inhale the chilly night air, and you wonder if he'll be back again tonight.  
  
You can't remember when they started, the dreams, the hallucinations, or whatever these things are, but they're a welcome distraction, the only one you have these days.  
  
You hear a rustling of curtains and then you see him: Malfoy.  
  
He's blurry, completely out of focus, because your glasses are on the bedside table, but there is no mistaking that drawl.  
  
And yet, common sense dictates it can't be him.  
  
(You were _there_ , the night he died, and you'll never forget what you saw.)  
  
He sits down in the chair next to your bed and you talk about Quidditch and Filch and Hagrid and all things Hogwarts.  
  
(Like you might have done back then, had you ever been friends.)  
  
You never mention the war.  
  
(Like there's some unspoken agreement you mustn't.)  
  
He's been visiting you for months, but tonight, things are different.  
  
It's the anniversary of Ron's death and you're fragile and distraught, even more so than usual.  
  
(For weeks, you've been plagued by guilty nightmares; they're the kind that never cease, they're the reason you loathe this time of year.)  
  
You break down and you tell him.  
  
It doesn't matter that he was your enemy once.  
  
(Neither of you won the war, anyway.)  
  
You admit to him that you're tired - _so bloody tired;_ nothing feels real, everything seems pointless, and you just can't take it anymore.  
  
(A fast, furious death would have been better than this slow, slumbering decay.)  
  
"I can help you there," he says.  
  
And you laugh bitterly, because he's told you that once before.  
  
(He wasn't the right sort then, and you're quite sure he isn't now, either, but he's the only one left, the only one who's still here, even if he really isn't.)  
  
You ask him what he means.  
  
He tells you that reigning in hell is second nature to a Malfoy.

You don't understand, but that's something you're used to. Most things go right over your head these days.  
  
(And wouldn't Hermione be appalled if she knew, if she were still alive to see you now, wallowing in self-pity, like you've been doing for months, years, decades, or however long it's been?)  
  
You ask him why he's here, why he keeps coming back to haunt you.  
  
(Is he some kind of vengeful ghost?)  
  
"I came to help you," he says. "As soon as you're ready..."  
  
You ask him why he, of all people, would even bother.  
  
"I owe you for clearing my name," he says simply, "and Malfoys always settle their debts."  
  
You frown. "You're dead."  
  
His laughter chills you to the bone. "A mere technicality, Potter."  
  
Again, you wonder what he means, and you think that, even in death, he's probably more alive than you are.  
  
(A forsaken hero, hiding in a high tower, left to his own devices, left to rot.)  
  
"How could you help me, Malfoy?" you finally ask.  
  
(You're afraid of the hope, but you're fed up with the despair and you're still a Gryffindor at heart, so you need to know.)  
  
"I can offer you an alternative," he says, "the gift of immortality."  
  
Then you feel it, a touch on your arm, followed by goose-bumps.  
  
(He's ice cold and no one's been this close to you in years.)  
  
Then you see it, a face mere inches from your own, its features close enough to see them properly without your glasses.  
  
You know now, he's here and he's real (really real), and you almost scream, because he looks as young as he did on the day he died.  
  
(The third of November of your seventh year, dragged off into the woods by Greyback and neither of them returned alive.)  
  
You bite your bottom lip, and you hesitate.  
  
"Your call, Potter," he says. "Tell me to leave now and I shan't bother you ever again."  
  
You realise you don't want him to go.  
  
Not now.

Not ever.

(He's all you have left, even if he's very different from how he used to be, but then again, so are you.)  
  
"Do it," you say, without thinking things over.  
  
(There's no need to think, anything would be better than this.)  
  
He moves even closer and he leans over you.  
  
You feel sharp teeth sink into your neck. You clutch at your sheets and you squint you eyes shut.  
  
(It hurts. Merlin, how it _hurts_ , until suddenly, it doesn't, nothing does, not even your legs anymore, and suddenly... suddenly, it's like you have ice running through your veins until ice turns to fire and you're seventeen once more and your life is just beginning.)  
  
You open your eyes again.  
  
The first thing you see is him, clear as day.  
  
(He's taken a few steps back and you realise you won't be needing your glasses anymore.)  
  
"Now what?" you ask.  
  
"You're coming with me," he says. "I'm taking you home."  
  
"Where's home?"  
  
"You'll see."  
  
You frown. You hesitate.  
  
He laughs. "Scared, Potter?"  
  
You're not.  
  
(Just this once, though, you wonder if you should be.)  
  
He holds out his hand.  
  
You get out of bed, you walk up to him and you take it.  
  
(Again, you're reminded of the past and of things that might have been.)  
  
He strides out onto the balcony, all the way to the ledge, pulling you with him.  
  
He jumps and you follow.  
  
And you think, this where it all ends, this is the part where you plummet to your death. Malfoy was only an illusion after all.  
  
(A clever trick of a guilt-ridden mind or a well-executed revenge from a childhood nemesis, and they'll all think it was suicide because you had nothing left to live for.)  
  
Soon, you realise you were wrong.  
  
Soon, you're flying again, and this, you think, is freedom.

  
  
**** 

  
Three weeks later, there's an article on the third page. It's the size of a postage stamp and they didn't bother with a picture.  
  
_Wizarding world mourns the unexpected death of Harry Potter._  
  
You shake your head, you throw the paper in the bin, and you slide back into bed and into your lover's arms.  
  
He kisses you gently and he tells you everything will be just fine.  
  
You're forever together and forever seventeen, and _The Daily Prophet_ has never been this wrong before.


End file.
